


Into the New World

by wanderwithme (wanderlustt)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Isekai - another world!, Jealousy, Red String of Fate, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24292012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustt/pseuds/wanderwithme
Summary: “Hi, I think I’m your soulmate,” you say, and maybe that’s not that best line to lead with, but you’re not wrong -- he *is* your soulmate according to the name scarred against your collarbone -- and he *should* be ecstatic to finally meet you.The door slams in your face. “FUCK MY LIFE,” comes the muffled scream on the other side.*A compilation of soulmate/isekai one-shots featuring the best Haikyuu boys. :)Chapter 1 - AtsumuChapter 2 - UshiwakaChapter 3 - Kita
Relationships: Kita Shinsuke/Reader, Miya Atsumu/Reader, Ushijima Wakatoshi/Reader
Comments: 107
Kudos: 909





	1. atsumu

It _sears--_ the burn in your lungs as you tumble headfirst into the manmade canal of Tokyo DisneySea.

You’re vaguely aware you’re probably drowning, which is fine—you never planned on living past 40 anyway. Jumping the gun on one of your life plans doesn’t seem too bad when you have nothing else going for you. (You are the one cutting lecture to go a theme park _alone_ on a Wednesday morning, after all.) So what if you're only 22? _Only the good die young_ (everyone will remember you at the prime of your life) and you're about to prove that.

Except you don't.

The immense disappointment of being pulled out of the water by some random park employee doesn’t even compare to the shock of opening your eyes and realizing you’re somewhere else. Somewhere far, far away. And oh, it's not a park employee, but a random old guy, plucking you up by the collar of your shirt like you're a helpless baby kitten.

No, you’re not drowning at Disney anymore (a shame, as you consider the potential million-dollar lawsuit forever lost. Amazing how they can get away with it even in another universe.). You’re hacking up water in the fountain of some luxury mall.

"Are you OK?" asks really old guy.

"Y--yeah," you say, words crumbling lamely in your mouth as you look around to assess your surroundings. The signs are still written in Japanese, which, yes, means you're still in the same country. _Right_. That's good. "Is this--where am I?"

“Ginza Six,” he says, and when you stare at him blankly like a deer in headlights, he goes on. "You must've hit your head. Should I call you an ambulance?"

"This isn't Disney?"

"What's Disney?"

You practically choke again, this time on laughter, but when you see he's not fucking with you, you recoil instead. "How can you not know what Dis--where am I, really?"

"Oh no, she has amnesia," says a passing really old lady.

Really old guy looks at you with eyes full of concern, "Are you OK, miss?"

You take one last look at your surroundings, the really old guy who's dialing 199 on the phone, and then you look at your hands before standing up. No, you think, you are really not OK.

*

Dripping wet, you make a mad dash for the closest boutique, take whatever's cheapest on the sale's rack, and make your way to the nearest bathroom in a mad dash that would probably impress even the most veteran marathon runner.

You field all sorts of weird looks as you start stripping naked by the mirror, throwing your clothes with a wet _thwack_ to the ground. You're in the middle of peeling away your undergarments when you see _it_.

A single name printed in your skin like a tattoo print in white.

Like a _scar_.

 _Atsumu Miya_.

"Whaaaaaat the fuck," you mumble, brushing your fingers against the characters, feeling every ridge to ascertain if this is real or if you're having ridiculous delusions of grandeur post-drowning. "What the actual hell is that?" You start rubbing away at the imprinted name, but nothing changes. The mark stays pretty on your skin, only turning redder the more you irritate it with your hands. "What the--"

“That’s your soulmate’s name,” says the girl occupying the sink next to you.

She’s wearing a some kind of school uniform and from the look of her, she’s probably in middle school. _Great_. Now you're getting lectured by somebody five years younger than you, which is basically the equivalent of getting lectured by a fetus. When she sees the doe-eyed look in your face, very obviously not understanding the severity of the situation, she scoffs, “Oh my gosh, are you from a different planet or something?”

“No, I’m just really, really stupid,” you tell her, not quite sure about the physics of telling someone where you’re actually from, which she’s technically right about. _You are from a different dimension_. But you've seen enough shows to understand the risk of endangering your life once you let the secret loose. And you're not in the mood to meet a violent, painful demise after drowning in a fountain. “Can you please explain to me what this means?"

Still, the look she offers you is filled with disbelief, maybe disgust? _Great_. She must think you’re fucking with her now. “Ever hear of the red string of fate?”

“Um, yes, but I forgot."

She sneers at you, “Jeez, you really are stupid.”

“Yes, glad we’ve established that. Now please explain this to me like I’m a five-year-old.”

She does.

*

Turns out all the cash you were carrying was converted to whatever currency they use in this new world. Along with your IDs, with your name printed on in block letters (your very unattractive ID photo stays exactly the same. Can't win them all). But your phone’s dead. Water-logging logic still applies even in this new world.

When you gather yourself and decide this isn't some weird dream you've conjured up with that weirdo brain of yours, you get yourself a guidebook from the local book store, untuck the map, and toss out the book before heading over to the library.

You make a bee-line for the public computers and start googling the name imprinted on your collarbone.

_Search: Atsumu Miya_

_3,000 new results._

Bingo.

So he's famous-famous. Figures.

Turns out this _Atsumu Miya_ guy is some kind of volleyball player...athlete...whatever. OK, so maybe you’re more of a football girl, but who cares? Beggars can’t be choosers, right? His player profile says his favorite food is fatty tuna, but there’s nothing else past that that's particularly helpful. Moot point. Fine. You decide to move along.

The second thing that shows up is _Onigiri Miya_ , apparently some restaurant his twin brother founded. You jot down the address, look up the closest sushi spot nearby, and head out on your way with errands in plan.

*

Fatty tuna in hand, you make your way to Onigiri Miya, where there's a line out the door that you basically ignore as you filter through the aisle until you find a very, very tall-looking man in a baseball cap that looks exactly like the guy on your collarbone.

"Line's there for a reason," he says, sauntering right past you with a two plates of mackerel for the customers in the booth next to you.

"You guys should really consider getting a front-of-house," you offer unhelpfully as you follow him into the back where the seats end and the kitchen begins. "I need to speak to you--are you Atsumu Miya's brother?"

"What gave it away," he deadpans.

You peel back the neck of your shirt, where the name sits on full display.

He does a double-take, "Oh shit." 

*

"Listen, if there's one thing you should know about my brother, it's that he ain't exactly the commitment type."

"That's fine." You're not exactly the one looking for _the boyfriend_ to end all boyfriends, but you decide to let that slide. It's easier than explaining this isn't your world -- you have no one else to turn to or trust -- and nothing makes sense logistically. "You said he's a volle--"

The door opens before you turn the corner—and there he is in all his glory. Atsumu Miya. He looks taller than his pictures, handsomer too. His hair's slicked back, which gives him an adversely mature quality that the bangs in his player headshots didn't.

"I had a good time."

Oh, there's someone else too.

Another girl.

He kisses her on the way out. “See you tomorrow night?” She says and he smiles and offers her a nod of affirmation before looking over to see his brother and you.

"See what I mean?" says Osamu, ushering you to the apartment. "Oi--that's like the third girl you brought back this week. What'd I tell you about sleeping with fans?"

Atsumu shrugs, "Doesn't matter if they'll keep quiet about it." He turns to you, "Who's this?"

“Hi, I think I’m your soulmate,” you say, and maybe that’s not that best line to lead with, but you’re not wrong -- he _is_ your soulmate according to the giant white characters scarred into your collarbone -- and he should be ecstatic to finally meet you, right?

The door slams in your face. “FUCK MY LIFE,” comes the muffled scream on the other side.

Osamu cocks his head to the side as you try not to feel completely insulted by the reaction you’ve just witnessed, “I think he’s taking it well," he says, and um, really? You two must have very different definitions of what it means to be well.

The door rips open again.

“Come in,” he says, utterly cold and callous as he takes off towards the couch. You try not to look completely hurt by the revelation that your soulmate already hates you, but easier said than done. His face is already morphing into something like he’s ready to kill you—which somehow puts you on edge because, hey, you're game to kill him too.

“I brought tuna,” you say, handing over the doggy bag of food. Your last attempt at putting on a show of good faith. Because food is supposed to unite people, regardless of what universe they come from. “I read it’s your favorite—”

“Can we just pretend this never happened?" He says, looking at you from the couch. "Where do you live? I'll call you a cab."

“I don’t have a home,” you say, “Actually—"

Atsumu groans, tossing his head back like the entire weight of the world has crushed his shoulders twice over, “Awesome. My soulmate is a homeless loser.”

“Hey, that’s not nice,” says Osamu, taking a seat next to him. “We don’t know if she’s a loser yet.”

Something inside you snaps when you see him untuck his phone from his pocket, "You think _I want to be here?_ " You drop the fatty tuna on the floor. "You fucking-- _dickhead? YOU THINK I WANT TO BE STUCK IN THIS STUPID WORLD? THAT DOESN'T KNOW WHAT DISNEY IS?"_

Atsumu blinks, "Wait, what do you mean by that?"

Oh. Wait.

Your secret's out and you're not miraculously dead.

But now the twins are staring at you like you're a literal alien (which you are, for the record) and though you're tempted to turn around, leave, and never turn back, you collapse on your knees, completely resigned to your fate instead.

*

“You think I’m crazy.”

For a while, Atsumu and Osamu just stare at you.

In silence.

Waiting.

Until.

"Yeah, you're crazy," says Osamu, standing up from his seat to reach for the case of fatty tuna that's still sitting next to you on the floor.

But Atsumu is rubbing his temples like he's already tired of you. And you--you start understanding the severity of your situation. Because neither of them believe you, which means you're basically on your own.

"Forget it," you mutter, standing up and making a bee-line for the door. "I thought you could help me out, but I'll figure this shit out on my own."

But Atsumu grabs you by the wrist before you can even get a handle on the doorknob. "Just--wait. Give me a sec, will ya? It's a lot to process," he says, and the look he offers you is so full of disdain, so full of pity, that you would rather just cut your losses and say fuck it. Because if he decides to believe you, he is then responsible for you the way a person is responsible when they discover an abandoned box of puppies on the side of the road.

"I just need time to think," he says, dragging you to the couch where he plops you right next to Osamu. "Just stay here. And be a good girl."

*

Like everything else in life, soulmates are not full proof.

Red strings break. Life happens fast. That’s why divorce lawyers are still in demand; that’s why relationship counselors still exist; and that’s why people learn to ignore the marks they’re born with to sleep with other people. _That’s why Atsumu Miya is perfectly content with his dating life outside the volleyball court_. Everything is set at a leisurely pace and there’s no expectation that anything will last more than a one-night stand.

Feelings don't get hurt, drama doesn't exist, and every party is happy.

It's the only game where everyone wins.

So when he stares at the mark of your name on his wrist, shifts his gaze to the name scribbled on your ID in block text, assesses your photo like he's trying to figure out some lost secret left by DaVinci on the Mona Lisa, he frowns.

You're cute, but you _could_ be a little prettier. (Well, that’s not saying much since you look like a wet puppy dog, which is basically what you are.) And you could be a little taller, but you’re overall easy on the eyes, even if it's not quite his aesthetic. It could be worse, he thinks, leaning over the sink to splash some water over his face.

When he comes back out, you're nowhere to be found.

“Where is she?"

Osamu has already emptied his case of fatty tuna, scrolling through his phone leisurely like he has nowhere else to be. “She said something about the mall and finding a way home. She also told me to tell you not to follow her—also that you’re a dickhead and she would rather drown herself in a fountain than have you as a soulmate,” he says. “Are you hungry?”

Atsumu groans, but grabs his jacket from the back of his couch.

"Where're ya goin'?"

“To find my dipshit soulmate,” Atsumu snaps, slamming the door shut.

*

It doesn't take him long to find you.

There's only one mall nearby, three blocks away from his volleyball gym, and there's only one fountain in the entire structure.

Doesn't help that you're literally fist-fighting with the security, trying to dive head-first into the fountain while a group of onlookers stare on like they're witnessing the advent of a zombie movie. You are _loud_ , but you are also crying, so when he dives into the water after you, it's enough to surprise even himself.

You break from the guards, jumping into the deep-end of the fountain, and he follows you, swimming right past the buffoons in uniforms to grab you by the nape of your white t-shirt. Which has gone completely see-through.

But you're bawling, hiccuping nonstop like you can't catch your breath. "I wanna go home," you sob. "I don't want to be here. I wanna see my mom--"

“Oi, you don't have to go,” he says. “You can stay, OK? I believe you."

Tears well up in your eyes—they well up fast, slipping down your face in hot fat globs until you’re sobbing into his shirt. “ _Why can’t I wake up from this,_ ” you say. “Why can't this just be a dream."

He doesn’t know what you mean, but he's managed to corral you to your feet, which is a minor victory in his book. He throws his jacket over your shoulders, tells the guards you're with him, and leads you out of the fountain where the group of onlookers look disappointed the show is finally over.

You're probably going to get a lifetime ban from ever visiting that mall again, but that's OK too.

*

After a hot shower, a few rice balls, and a nap, you get settled into his one-bedroom apartment.

If what you said is true, then you seem to have a pretty good handle on things—the world you’re from isn’t much different than his, except you don’t know anyone here, and apparently Disney doesn’t exist.

You don't speak about what happened in the mall. He's afraid to ask because the thought of you breaking apart again is just too much to handle. And he's done his good deed of the day: he followed his gut, did the right thing, and rescued you from mall cops.

So he spends the next hour just studying you from the dining table. "You can sleep on the couch," he says, and it's enough to make you smile. Amazing what two rice balls can do to lift the mood.

He's about to say something more when there comes another knock on the door.

It’s another girl.

"Hi," she says, scanning his sweatpants and tshirt. "Forget about our date?"

"Shit, yeah. Family emergency," he says, whipping up a lie on the fly as the girl shifts her gaze to you. "That's my cousin. She just moved to the city. She's staying with me for a while until she gets on her feet."

She buys it, "Aw, that's too bad. Call me later then?"

"Will do." He pecks her on the lips before closing the door, smile forming on his face as he turns to you.

And then he frowns. Almost immediately.

“You are impinging on my right to get laid so I hope you’re ready to pay up,” he says, and for a moment, you think he might be talking about a different kind of payment, but when he realizes the look on your face is something of disgust, he goes on. “ _You’re paying half of rent, idiot_. What the hell is wrong with you? Get your head out of the gutter."

“What the hell is wrong with me? _What the hell is wrong with you?”_ You snap, forgiveness apparently all lost as you cross your arms over your chest and huff. “We were being nice and then you started being an asshole to me for no good reason."

He just looks at your face like it's offending him, "Ugh." He turns his heel to go to his room.

He slams the door shut.

*

You spend the rest of the night ignoring him, watching some cheesy romcom on the television until it's pitch black outside your windows.

You're vaguely aware at some point that the door to his room is creaking open, but you don't give half a damn as you continue staring at the drone of your screen, watching the cute couple make their final meeting in the dreary thicket of the Meiji Shrine.

Atsumu stomps into the living room, every step heavy like lead, until he reaches the end of the pull-out couch.

"I can't sleep," he says, nudging your foot roughly with his. " _Because the TV is on_."

You lift the remote and turn the volume all the way up.

After some heavy consideration, he joins you on the pull-out couch. Flopping right next to you while maintaining a respectable wedge of distance.

"Go away," you say, but it hardly has any resolve as you tone down the volume on the TV, apparently acquiescing to this terrorist's demands.

“What’re you watching.”

“I don’t know. A romcom,” you say, no fight left in your voice. “If you wanna turn something else on—”

“It’s fine.”

For a while, the two of you just stay like that, watching TV on the couch. Until the main couple are kissing on screen, in the rain, totally drenched. It’s longing, deep, and passionate, and when they look into each other’s eyes it’s like there’s nothing else in this world they can see.

“That,” you say, motioning to the TV with the remote. “Best romcom trope ever, bar none. I'll fight anyone who says otherwise."

Atsumu takes a breath, ready to take your offer and say something offensive to piss you off because the best trope is obviously body swaps because _boobs are awesome_ , but when he looks over, he sees you’re already fast asleep.

He tucks the covers over your shoulder and decides to call it a night.

*

Days go by and Atsumu starts figuring out what life looks like with you in the picture.

You don't see much of each other during the day. He wakes up at dawn for his morning workout, starts practicing at noon, and gets home in the evening. When he has a match, he doesn't get home until midnight. And when he's on the road, he barely sees you around at all.

Still, you start settling into a routine and he finds himself coming home to dinner made. You start packing his lunches too, which is an oddly domestic thing to do, but he thinks nothing of it because you tell him "I like cooking" and "I always wanted to be a chef", which are basic keywords for _don't misinterpret my actions_.

“So what’s your endgoal here?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, what’re you trying to do? Win the Olympics?”

Atsumu rubs his temples, “One does not simply _win the Olympics_ ,” he says. “And for your information, we’re a division one volleyball team, which,” you look less and less interested the more he’s explaining. “Are you even listening?”

“So you’re a professional.”

“Yeah.”

“And you get paid to play—”

“—volleyball.”

For a while, both of you just eat in silence.

“That’s really cool,” you tell him, suddenly, beaming. “You followed your dreams and now you're here. You made it. That's, like, one in a million." You probably aren't thinking much of it when you say the next words: "I think that's really amazing."

Atsumu goes to sleep with a smile on his face.

*

You start taking on shifts at Onigiri Miya, working front of house because Osamu says cute girls will drive more customers through the door—and hey, that’s kind of sexist but he’s not completely wrong either—so you deal with it, put on a brave face, and work your ass off because money isn’t free and money in _Tokyo_ is especially not free.

Outside the twins, you start making friends with the wait staff. With your long shifts into the night, they’re the only ones you really see around. So you share drinks with them, bitch about customers, and try to explain to them the unfair power of one tiny capitalist mouse, hoping that one day you'll wake up and they'll know exactly what you're talking about.

Atsumu and his teammates are part of that little squad, pouring in long after restaurant hours are closed. You take over kitchen duties while Osamu serves, and for the most part, Atsumu remains perfectly civil -- no one knows you're living with him and you're content with that arrangement -- though Osamu makes it clear to the others that you're completely off limits. (Whatever that means. You think it's probably for the sake of his brother.)

Adriah, one of his foreign teammates, starts chatting with you outside the group. And it's mostly menial at first. He asks you how your day is going and if onigiri was always your life's passion, and for what it's worth, you do your best to indulge him because he's nice and seems like he genuinely wants to know.

Atsumu watches mostly with a discerning eye, like an eagle watching its prey moments before striking. You give him a look like _what the hell is wrong with you_ which he returns with similar fervor, as if you're the one doing something wrong.

“If you don't mind me asking, where are you from?"

“—that’s none of your business,” says Atsumu, and, gee, that’s a weird thing to say to a freaking teammate. “Sorry. She’s my cousin, alright? I’m protective.”

Adriah laughs, but there’s hurt behind his eyes that you don't miss.

Eventually, the rest of Black Jackals call it quits for the night and offer their thanks before leaving. But Atsumu hangs around while you and Osamu clean up, and it's only when you start wiping down the counter that you decide to say something.

“Your friend Adriah,” you start, wringing the towel in your hand. “You were really mean to him.”

“I was saving your sorry ass. He was _asking you where you were from_ ,” he replies, scrolling through his phone to look at his game stats. “What was I supposed to do? Watch you tell him you’re from another dimension or somethin’?”

“I was gonna tell him I’m from Tokyo, idiot. Your cities still exists in my world."

Oh.

“You were an asshole to him for no reason,” you tell him, frowning. "You should say sorry."

"Whatever," he mumbles, but it hardly has any effect because the only discomfort he feels is in his gut--and it doesn't feel like guilt, only envy.

*

Weeks go by, and suddenly you've been living in his place for three months.

Atsumu has always been a morning person, but you’re fast asleep by the time he gets up and makes himself breakfast—you work deep into the night at the restaurant, so you sleep during the day as much as you can. And when Osamu is taking a shift in front of the stadium, you’re the one manning the restaurant all day.

So he decides he owes you this much of a professional courtesy. He does have a sizable investment in _Onigiri Miya_ and you're part of that success, so the numbers are all lining up for him to be nice to you, perhaps even respectful.

He starts getting used to having you around. It’s a curious little thing, coming home to food on the table. He thinks there's some comfort in it he hasn't quite managed to digest.

“I’m moving out,” you tell him one day.

Oh. He doesn’t quite expect that, but then again, what did he actually expect? “You—”

“—I have enough saved up for a deposit,” you go on, beaming with a smile so bright it makes his stomach flip. “And work has been going really great. Osamu lets me cook in the kitchen, which is what I always wanted to do, and all my coworkers have been really supportive. I'm doing what I love, so I've decided living here isn't too bad."

For a moment, he all but forgets that you're from another world.

A different world.

“You don’t have to go, y’know,” he says. “You can always stay.”

“And sleep on your couch forever?” You laugh, pouring yourself a cup of coffee before making your way to the dining table. “No thanks.” You take a seat, pull out the newspaper, and flip to the listings of apartments in the back. “Besides, you can get back to your normal life. I’m sure you have a whole laundry list of girls who are waiting for you to call them back.”

You say it so flippantly he nearly forgets the fact that your name is still printed on his wrist.

Because all of this feels normal, _like this is exactly how it's supposed to be_. Like this is exactly where _he's_ supposed to be.

“Oh, and can you do me a favor?”

“Anything,” the word escapes him faster than he can think.

You give him a funny look, “I was wondering if you could get me two tickets to your game tonight,” you say. “This guy I’m seeing—”

He blanches, “—you’re _dating_?”

“Um, yeah.”

He looks weirdly offended, which somehow makes you feel offended too, and when he gets up to go to his room, he slams his door and you're left wondering what you did wrong.

*

It's raining.

Attendance is down when the weather sucks, so the stands remain relatively empty when you arrive, soaked to the bone. Your date--some dreary looking college student--ushers you in, leading you to your seats in the stands. _The best seats in the house_ , thanks to Atsumu. You would be so lucky. And you would be so welcome.

*

It's raining and you're willowing outside after the game with your date, who offers you a courteous goodbye before you turn your heel, ready to head in the opposite direction.

But Atsumu's there, like some creepy Machiavellian final boss. The rest of his teammates bid him goodbye, but he stays there, watching you. Like a stalker. Like a weirdo stalker. And you hold your gaze on him for a moment longer before turning around and _bolting_.

You start running, so he starts running, and suddenly this is now a game of cat and mouse that neither of you really signed up for.

"WHY ARE YOU RUNNIN'?" He screeches.

"BECAUSE YOU'RE CHASING ME," you screech back, but he catches up before you can get across the street and suddenly you're in a one-way wrestling competition to get out of his grip. "What the hell is wrong with you? Let go of me!"

"Why were you running?" He asks again, and your eyes immediately well up with tears, which get lost in the downpour of rain. "Where are you going?"

" _I don't know_ ," you snap, and suddenly you're ugly sobbing, choking out the words that come next. "I don't know where I'm going, OK? I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing? _I don't belong here--this isn't my world, and you chasing me doesn't help!_ "

He rips back his sleeve and shoves his wrist into your face, “That’s your name, alright? You belong here."

"W--"

He pulls you into his arms, lips colliding against yours and suddenly you're melting, melting, melting. Tasting him as he lifts you into the air, only to lower you slowly to the ground as your lips part. As you gulp down your last breath because you know this is a road you're traveling down that you can't turn back on.

"I'm sorry it took me so long," he says. "I love you. And I'm sorry. Please stay."

You meet his gaze, the smallest smile forming on your lips, "OK."

_Best. Trope. Ever._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m on [twitter](https://twitter.com/wanderlu5tt)


	2. ushijima

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for THENOBLESTAR.... i wuv u!!!
> 
> sorry this was a little rushed!! wanted to get smth out fast before i got litty tonight ;)

The frills of lingerie never suited you, so you’ve decided to go totally nude, lying on a bed that belongs to your current kind-of-boyfriend, waiting for him to get out of the shower—

\--which he does, taking stock of every inch of you.

“Holy shit.”

Well, that’s one reaction. “You, my friend, are getting lucky,” you say, brushing away the cards spread out on the covers.

“Don’t I know it.”

He hops into the bed, hoisting you up by the waist before standing and pressing you _hard_ against the wall. Your lips meet, you’re making out, and somewhere in the chaos and melting, the towel catches on his foot.

The next moment flutters by in a flurry.

He takes a step back, the tautness of the knot forcing him into an awkward half-step that has his arms loosening around your waist. He's collapsing -- _fast_ \-- you go flying backwards, ramming your head into the headboard with a rough _thwack_ that has you reeling in pain before the comfort of darkness begins closing in.

The last thing you remember is thinking _fuck_ before promptly passing out.

*

There’s a painful, _dull_ throb in your head as you open your eyes.

To a bedroom you don’t recognize.

A bedroom…that’s miraculously clean.

 _Seriously_. Everything is immaculate. Immaculate and bare bones. There’s a desk in one corner, a rolling chair tucked away underneath, a nightstand in another corner, and the bed that you’re currently lying on—and _that’s it_.

You try and take stock of where the _fuck_ you are as you undo the covers (because of course the bed is made too) and wrap it around your naked body, making your way to the window, where you open the blinds—

It’s Tokyo, but it looks nothing like the Tokyo you know. The streets— _they’re actually empty_ , no cars in sight. Every storefront is miraculously open at this hour, when they should be closed, and there’s a giant billboard sitting in the distance of a volleyball team you don’t know. You’re pretty sure if there were a team that should be up there, _i_ t would be the men’s soccer team, or at least the baseball team that just made it to the finals of the World Cup, but who are you kidding? Sports has never been your arena anyway.

Instinctively, you _know_ you’re in the wrong place—maybe the wrong time. But the logical part of your brain is trying to fill in the gaps: _maybe you bumped your head too hard_ , maybe this is a dream, maybe this is just—

The door opens.

One very, _very_ tall man is standing in the frame, staring at you with a listless gaze that spells…anger?

Perhaps irritation?

“ _Did you bring me here?_ ” You shriek, the last bastion of logic inside your mind snapping apart as you nearly drop the wrap around your body. “Who—”

“Bring you here?” He just stares at you, wrinkling his brows.

“Your place is kind of small,” comes another voice from down the hall—another man, _also very tall_. Wild red hair. Beady eyes. He perks up when he comes to a stop and sees you. “Wow." He whistles, low. "Didn’t think you had it in you, Wakatoshi.”

“No, she's an intruder,” says the very stoic man.

“I’m _not_ an intruder,” you state, grabbing your phone and collecting the cards littered on his bed. Somehow that's managed to survive the interdimensional travel you've just done. “Listen, I don’t know what’s going on—I don’t know who you are, _how I got here_ —”

“Get out.”

Man with beady eyes blinks, “Oh? A lover’s quarrel?”

You don’t get a chance to fight because he basically grabs you by the tail-end of your blanket before promptly tossing you out his room like a worthless sack of garbage. When he opens the door again, your phone and playing cards come clattering onto the floor next to you before it closes again.

_“Wow, your fans always show up naked in your bed?”_

_“No.”_

_“That was a joke, Wakatoshi_.”

The door rips open again and the same stoic man is staring at you with a gaze that reeks of disapproval.

“You don’t need to tell me again,” you seethe, standing up. “I’m on my way out. And not that you'll believe me, I'm not a fan--I don't even know who you are."

But he grabs you by the shoulder, ripping away the blanket from your back.

“This is harassment,” you seethe, but he’s holding you still, and you have to strain your neck to see what he’s looking at—what he’s studying so damn intensely.

“What is it,” you snap, swatting away his hands, wrestling the blanket from his hands—

Only to see a tramp stamp tattooed in your lower back.

An. Actual. Tramp. Stamp.

"FUCK."

The cry you utter cuts through the air like a dying bird's screech--not only do you think the entire apartment complex can hear you, you're pretty sure the other side of the earth has probably heard.

“WHAT THE HELL IS THAT,” you scream again, literally slapping the mark like it’s a mosquito. As if hitting it will make it vanish. But it sticks. Bright red. Unmoving. Stubborn as _fuck_. “Seriously, what the hell is—” You lift your hand to slap it again, but he grabs you by the wrist before you can, _glaring at you_.

“That’s my name,” he states.

 _Ushijima Wakatoshi_.

"I don't know _who you are_ ," you hiss. You stare at the mark, then back at him. “This has to be illegal.”

He lets go of your wrist, “No, this means we’re soulmates.”

Wait.

What?

As you try and _digest_ this battering ram of a revelation, he unzips his track jacket before peeling off his shirt. And there it is—your name is printed between his pecs. His perfectly defined pecs. And his perfectly sculpted six-pack. And his perfectly nipple to pectoral ratio. And his perfectly—

“What do you mean— _soulmates_?” You ask and he just keeps staring at you as if you’re supposed to figure this out on your own.

But somewhere deep down, you already know. _You’ve read about this_. You grew up in Tokyo, for god’s sake. The red string of fate is not lost on you. It’s embedded in your mythology, the romantic ethos of your country.

“Excuse me for a second,” you say, making your way down the hall until you reach the bathroom.

You filter in like a willowing _yurei_ , close the door behind you, and promptly vomit your stomach out.

*

For a while, you just continue lying naked on the cold tiled floor of his unsurprisingly clean bathroom, staring at the ceiling, waiting for an answer to apparate. You wonder what you did to deserve this, but truthfully you’ve done a lot to deserve worse, so this can’t be the end-all be-all, right? Maybe you’re already dead and you don’t even know it. Maybe this is the extraordinary afterlife. Maybe this is—

No, that couldn’t be it. You’re pretty sure if there is an afterlife, people don't magically appear with tramp stamps without their consent. And people probably don’t throw up either. And you definitely threw up. Bile, acid, aftermath. (You’re the one who tasted it.)

There’s a knock on the door.

“Go away,” you say.

A pause comes, but it’s only when you hear those footsteps vanish down the corridor that you muster up the strength to get up to open the door.

There’s a bottle of water and painkillers sitting on the other side.

Tucked underneath is a jersey and a pair of boy shorts.

*

Eventually, you muster the strength to get on, get dressed, and get the menial stuff out of the way—where you are, _who he is_ , and what he does.

But somewhat inevitably, you run out of things to say, and you’re left sitting there in silence as he eats his dinner (grilled chicken breast, brown rice, and beans) while you nurse your headache with an icepack and a can of beer brought over by his very useful friend Tendou, who seems thrilled to witness what is apparently the worst day of your life with a smile on his face.

“So. You’re a volleyball player…for Shwookey Houser," you state.

“Shweiden Adlers,” says Ushijima.

"But you were so close," says Tendou.

“Oh, yeah. That's 'cause I love volleyball.”

Tendou beams, “Really?”

“No.”

But Ushijima barely looked impressed as you drain your beer, take a breath, and continue, “I have a boyfriend.” So what if you’re bending the truth? Sure, you two aren’t official, but that doesn’t mean you have to keep up the pretense of staying.

Tendou grins, “But you’re _soulmates_. And soulmates always trump boyfriends.” He lifts his sleeve. “See? That’s my soulmate’s name—met her when I was _six_. Knew I was gonna marry her as soon as I saw her.”

"That is...insanely creepy."

What do you tell them? This isn’t your world? _You aren’t who he thinks you are?_ You know these kinds of men. _You know how easily they can take advantage of your naivete_ , how easily one wrong step can _easily_ land you six feet under.

“I’m going home,” you say, standing up form the table. “It was really nice to meet you—um—”

“Ushijima.”

“Right.” You’re sure the tattoo of his name above your buttcheeks will be a firm reminder of that. “And—”

Tendou looks less pleased, “Tendou.”

“Gesundheit,” you say, frowning before you walk right out the door.

*

Into the cornerstore you go, miraculously open and _bustling_ at 2am on a weeknight. It doesn’t look like a 7/11—it looks more like a local bodega, what with the cluttered boxes out front, sandwich maker at the counter who’s watching volleyball on the TV, and a black _cat_ watching you from one of the aisles.

You pay for a pack of plastic cups and a ping-pong ball, and ask if you can borrow one of their boxes, to which they oblige.

Then you head into the station, look up the transfers to Ginza, and head on your way.

*

“Pick a cup, _any cup_. Find the ping-pong ball and you win."

The nameless finance bro floozy sitting before you strokes his chin, staring at the three red solo cups. He points to the middle one, “That.”

“No, I definitely heard it there,” says his friend, motioning to the cup on the right.

“Fine. That one.”

You move your hand to the far end. And lift it.

It’s empty.

“Oof, unlucky,” you wince, picking up the other two cups to reveal the ping pong ball in the original. “Double or nothing?”

It goes on like for another few hours—each finance bro filtering in and out to take the L in this very, _very_ rigged game of _guess what cup_ —until you have at least 40,000 yen stacked up in your pocket.

All of them are stupidly drunk, but whatever goodwill and laughter begins to fade as they go on like this—until all three of them are staring at you, silently. That's when you know it's time.

“I think that’s it for the night, boys,” you smile, pocketing the cash in your giant boy shorts. “Hey, maybe we’ll see each other again and you’ll get another chance to win back your mo—”

But the fattest one among them grabs you by the wrist, “ _You’re a swindler_. You cheated us.”

“Hey! I didn’t swindle shit,” you snap, wrestling your arm away to absolutely no avail—he’s much stronger than you are, _and you’re probably half his weight_. “Let me go!”

And shockingly, he does. You watch his face go pale in _utter terror._

The three of them take off simultaneously, running in the opposite direction.

“Ha! That’s right. Fucking _fear me_ , cowards!”

You turn around, running face first into something hard.

“Ahem.”

It’s Ushijima, staring at you. Same old stiff face. Same old disappointment. _Same old disenchantment_. For someone who’s supposed to be your soulmate, he could probably show you a bit more affection.

“You left your wallet in my bedroom,” he states, and you take it, hands still shaking as you open it to look at the contents. _Your ID_ is still there, along with some cash, and your credit cards are there too.

It takes you a second to realize he came all this way to find you at 2am in the morning. Yes, that revelation is not lost on you, even as you stare at your box, your cups, and ping-pong ball you'd done so well to slip into your sleeve.

You take a breath, feeling the weird urge to actually do the right thing, “Fine. Let's talk."

*

You tell him everything from the beginning. You tell him about the world you’re from, the kind-of-boyfriend that you have, and exactly how you ended up landing in this world, foreign and unfamiliar to you—the kind of universe you’d only see in glimpses in some weird fever dream.

And he listens. He does that a lot, you realize. He takes long pauses to think before answering, which gives him an adversely _villainous_ quality despite being mister perfect prim and proper. So when you finish explaining your story, he’s quiet, and you’re left sitting there, _wondering if you’ve left out any details_ , any important tools of the trade—

“You’re a con woman.”

Ah, of course. That _would_ be the thing that sticks.

“I prefer artist,” you say, and when you see the disapproving look on his face, you frown, “but I guess the correct nomenclature doesn’t matter.”

Still, he’s thinking. Thinking in perpetuity. _Thinking, thinking, thinking_ …

Thinking.

Still thinking.

“You should stay here,” he states coolly at last—and you’re so relieved he’s finally broken the silence you don’t even realize what he’s actually said.

“But—"

“If you want to live somewhere else, I can arrange for a hotel until you get a job.”

That sounds expensive but you don’t exactly like the idea of owing him one, so you lower your gaze, suck it up, and let out the softest, _softest_ “OK” you can muster.

*

For the next few days, you follow Ushijima like a lost puppy dog.

He doesn’t let you stay home alone without supervision—unless Tendou’s around—and you get tired of being cooped up, so you start sticking to him like gum. Following him to practice after his morning run, waiting outside the stadium, and watching his games at night in a stand filled with adoring and _very loud_ fans.

Truthfully, you’re plotting your return to your world, but you suppose that takes a certain amount of ingenuity that you don’t have right now. So you spend most of your time mulling it over, wondering when the solution will hit you like a freight train.

Because that’s how it always happens in the movies. So surely that’s how it always happens in these kinds of stories, right?

“Your dinner’s getting cold,” he says, and you look down at your white chicken blandly. “Eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’ll grow weak,” he replies. He’s been talking a lot more lately, but of course, this comes with the caveat of getting reprimanded nonstop. “Without sustenance, one cannot maintain their performance.”

You’re tempted to fight him, but instead, you pick up your fork and knife and cut yourself a sliver of chicken. It’s bland as can be—no doubt because of his stupid diet—but it tastes _good_ , if only because you haven’t eaten anything substantial in days. You don’t say much as you keep eating, as you burn through your plate of chicken, rice, and beans until nothing’s left.

He smiles.

It’s so quick—you practically miss it. That little curl of his lip. You think it must’ve been a delusion, but when he moves to pick up your plate, he does it with a little more cheer and less fuss than you expect.

*

Still, it’s a tortuously slow process.

When Ushijima realizes you’re not going to run away any time soon, he gives you more freedom to go out without supervision. He doesn’t ask any questions when you return with fistfuls of cash, even though he offers that stupid, disapproving look like it’s going out of style.

Otherwise, life becomes pretty mundane. He wakes up at 5am for his morning run, wakes you up when he returns—the two of you even start making breakfast together (he teaches you how to fry an egg and you try not to marvel at the fact that in your 24 years of living you’ve actually managed to actually _cook something edible_ ). You act like this is normal, and for the most part, _it feels normal_ , but neither of you really talk, unless it’s regarding your plans or your jobs.

“What’s your favorite color?” You ask one fine Sunday, lounging on his couch where you’ve taken up residence. “Wait, don’t tell me—it’s bl—"

“Red.”

“Oh.” How did you not see it from all the red t-shirts in his closet? “Your turn—guess mine.”

He looks at you for a moment, “Yellow.”

“How’d you know?”

He looks surprised, “I’m right?”

“No,” you tell him, flipping on the TV. “It’s blue. I thought we might like the same colors. Since we’re soulmates and all.”

He frowns, but takes a seat on the couch next to you to watch whatever mindless variety show is playing in the background. Neither of you are really watching, but the silence is comforting so you allow yourself the luxury of a smile too.

*

You start getting settled into your new life, so much so that you're starting to ignore your initial plans of diving back into your old life. With your old city. With your old not-boyfriend. With your old plans.

But dusk is the loneliest hour, so when Ushijima heads to sleep, you find yourself thinking more than you'd like.

And you're thinking there's only one door separating you.

Slowly, you crawl to your feet, tiptoeing down the hall until you reach his room.

You don't hesitate when you open the door, watching him sleep quietly in the dark on his side. He sleeps without his shirt, half-naked because you're stuck in the dead of summer and he refuses to use the air conditioner. You walk over, crawl into the blankets next to him, and hover behind like a ghost.

He shifts.

"I can't sleep," you mumble, and he doesn't fight you.

He just turns around--the mark of your name etched into his chest in full view.

You close your eyes, feeling a flutter in your stomach as you take a breath and fall asleep with your final exhalation.

*

You’re starting to forget how you got here.

It happens so fast you don’t even realize it’s happening until it’s gone. It isn’t until you’re staring at your ID card, trying remember _how you got there_ that, _oh, right_ —you slammed your head against the bedframe, knocked yourself out, and woke up in this universe.

“Are you OK?”

You blink, “Y—yeah. Of course.” Your memories are vanishing faster than you can catch them, but you’re not about to let him know that. “I was just thinking.”

“About?”

You look out at the carnival stands outside the stadium. Kids are running around, screeching like tiny little monkeys with too much energy to spare and the jumbotron is droning on in the background, player portraits flashing on the screen— _Kageyama, Hoshiumi, Ushijima_ …

“Nothing,” you tell him.

He looks confused, “You were thinking about nothing?”

You try not to snicker, ushering him towards the entrance of the arena, “Go—you have warm-ups, right? I’ll be here after you’re done.” And when he looks at you over his shoulder, it’s with a reassuring smile like _don’t worry_ , which somehow relieves you of whatever you were thinking about.

Until he turns away and vanishes into the tunnel.

*

You peruse the carnival at a mostly leisurely pace, watching all the kids playing shoot the duck, ring toss, and fish bowl at the carnival booths—prizes sitting just out of reach. _Hanging by the neck_. It’s nighttime, which means his game is probably over, _which means you should probably meet him at the arena_ , but you stay a little longer, studying the games. Studying the booth leaders like they’re devils in disguise, which they technically are (but are you so different?)

 **ushijima** : are you still outside.

 **you** : depends

 **ushijima** : yes or no

 **you** : ?

 **ushijima** : just say yes or no

 **you:** no  
**you:** i went home

You don’t get another response, but for what it’s worth, it makes you laugh as you swindle a batch of winning tokens from the entrance and start redistributing them into the pockets of all those unsuspecting kids who are too young to understand they’re getting scammed.

*

Ushijima watches you from a distance—watches as you steal those tokens, watches you _redistribute them_ , watches you buy yourself a candied apple from one of the stands and watch over the carnival like it’s your kingdom.

And then he watches you slip away from the crowd, out of the carnival, and into the darkness.

Like you were never there to begin with.

*

You run until you can't.

You don't know where you're going, but you have a ticket to Kyoto in your hands, and you're staring into the dark and endless void of the train station, holding your breath, waiting for an answer that might or might not ever come.

But you balk when the train pulls in. _You pause at the door_ while the others filter on.

You pause so long the doors close and suddenly you're alone again.

*

He finds you crying on the street, _bawling_.

Everyone’s staring at you as they pass by—like you’re some kind of freakshow.

He takes a breath, _sighs_ , and takes a seat next to you on the curb.

You don’t explain why, but the unspoken telepathy that’s developed between you already gives him a clue on what this is about. It’s the hopelessness of your situation, the utter futility, because _what else could you be so upset about?_

Still, he puts an arm around you as you continue sobbing.

*

You try banging your head on the headboard, but it hardly has the same effect after the 20th try, so you’ve resorted to just lightly tapping your temple against the hardwood instead. You think if you try hard enough you might knock yourself out and wake up in the right world again, and hey, it’s probably not the worst idea you’ve ever had.

Ushijima has been watching you, leaning over his thighs.

Thinking.

“You’re a scammer,” he starts, and _here we go again_. “A con artist.”

You’re about to defend yourself, but he goes on—

“You’re ignorant. And selfish.”

You peer up at him over the headboard, but he’s stayed completely unchanged. “So that’s the plan? We’re just going to spend the rest of the night talking about how awful—"

“And I love you.”

Oh.

He stands up, meeting your gaze, solemn as ever—though there’s an ounce of hurt withered away in that look on his face too.

“I’m trying to understand why you won’t let me.”

*

He’s gone the next morning before you wake up. It gives you the chance to sleep in, but you don’t have an appetite to rest anyway as you pull yourself out of bed, get washed up, and head to the kitchen to make yourself breakfast.

He doesn’t have a game today, but you know Tendou is visiting, so you start thinking about what it would take to pack a few things and head out before they get home.

Still, you stare at the headboard of his bed and think.

(Truthfully, you don't really want to go home anymore.)

*

There are voices in the apartment, even as you lay in Ushijima’s bed, staring at the door like you’re waiting for a monster to appear on the other side. As they come closer, you take a breath, exhale, and tell yourself _this is for the best_.

The door opens, and there he is, along with Tendou. Staring at you.

“Hey, look, your nudist--I mean soulmate's--back.”

But Ushijima gets a good look at you.

Because you’re literally wearing nothing except his jersey. And it’s so big on you it literally spills over your shoulder like you're seducing him--

“Get out.”

Tendou snickers, but that smile on his face vanishes into something of surprise when Ushijima shoves him out and slams the door.

You smile, watching him strip as he crawls onto bed, taking off his shirt.

"For the record, I'm sorry," you say.

He completely ignores you, and when he presses a kiss to your lips, you blush— _you actually blush_. "I love you," he says.

"I love you too."

He grabs you by the chin, forcing you to look at him dead in the eye--and the thing is, you've never seen that look on his face before: heady, lustful, so full of desire he could probably burst.

You look away, blushing. “Whatever, don’t make a big deal about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m on [twitter](https://twitter.com/wanderlu5tt)


	3. kita

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> KITAAAAAAAA
> 
> i have no other words i would literally die for this man which is honestly kind of a miracle because it is against my principles to die for any man

“Please get off the ledge. This isn’t funny. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

In your drunken haze, you stick out one foot over the railing, high-heel hanging off your toe precariously, only to drop—spiraling in the air until it hits the water below with a soft _plop_.

“You _cheated_ on me and then you lied about it when I specifically asked you not to, asshole,” you hiss—and that initial wave of utter anger melts into something of hurt when you see he doesn’t look remorseful at all. “Go ahead then—call up your dirty mistress right now. End it."

He sighs, scratching the back of his neck. ‘ _Why isn’t he pulling out his phone_?’ You wonder, catching your balance at the edge, looking over to see the full moon in the void of dark sea water. Somewhere deep inside, you already know the answer.

“She’s not just a mistress,” he says. “I love her."

Oh.

“It wasn’t just a one-night stand,” he goes on, fiddling with his cuff links like he’s James Bond after he’s stopped a runaway train from going off course. “I’m sorry, I wish there was a better way for you to find out—”

But when he looks back up, you’re not there anymore.

There’s a _shriek_ and he bolts to the edge, where he sees your lifeless body hurtling through the air, vanishing into the depths of the darkness. He thinks, of course, that it must be strange that there’s no splash when you hit the water, but he has a better mind to pull out his phone, call the police, and tell them his fiance’s just fallen off the bridge.

*

_Splash!_

You surface from the water, coughing and wheezing, and it’s not until you get pulled out by the scruff of your dress like a wet kitten that you finally take a breath.

“Are you alright?”

You look up at your apparent savior, glaring, “Oh, of course. I fell out of the sky, hit the water—which by the way feels like concrete—and almost drowned. I could’ve _died!_ Of course I’m alright!”

He just gives you a look, “OK then.” He shrugs and turns away—whatever goodwill he initially had apparently gone as you scramble to your feet in a frantic pace.

“I lied, OK? _I’m not alright_. I need your help.” You’re painfully aware you’re no longer in Tokyo because you’re surrounded by green pastures and rice paddies as far as the eye can see. There are no city lights here, not even a lick of concrete to be seen, and when you digest the fact that _oh, you are probably in another world_ , you have to physically bite back the bile from spilling. “Because this isn’t my world.”

He pauses, thinking. “What does _that_ mean?”

You take a breath.

*

And tell him everything: where you’re from, how you ended up here, and the cheating fiancé who literally watched you topple over the edge of a bridge.

Truthfully, this isn’t the first time you’ve done this _interdimensional travel thing_. The first time, you’d nearly died, and whatever memory you have of it has long since vanished. It comes with the territory of this power. If you can even call it that. It's more of an inconvenience.

For a while, he’s quiet, digesting your entire diatribe with a look on his face like he’s considering the weight of your words.

“OK,” he says. “I believe you.”

You blink, “Really?” It’s usually _never_ this easy.

“It would be ignorant to dismiss the possibility of interdimensional travel,” he states, stroking his chin. “Scholars of the past have referenced in old texts that certain deities possessed a similar level of power.”

“I’m definitely not a deity, but I’m glad we can agree on that.”

“However, I can’t overlook the possibility that you may also be a swindler,” he goes on. “Or perhaps a vengeful yurei.”

Oh, you’re vengeful alright, but your sights are locked on a different man. “Would a swindler tell you such an embarrassing story?” And it works: he looks at you with a shrug like _point taken, you really are too pathetic to be a deity_. “Besides, I don’t plan on staying very long,” you tell him, gathering your hair in a bun and tying it up with a rubber band that’s managed to somehow survive the landing. You look up at the sky, “When’s the next full moon?”

He follows your gaze, “Probably not for another month.”

You look up at the sky, then back at him again, “That means I’ll be stuck here until then,” you say, a shiver coming down your spine as you take a step past him towards the water’s edge. “Is there a convenience store nearby?”

“We don’t have one.”

“What do you mean you don’t have one _?”_

He blinks at you, “Did you not hear me the first time? We don’t—”

He pauses.

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” you grumble, stepping onto dry land. “I get it. You don’t have to tell me twice. I’ll find my way, don’t worry about—”

He grabs you by the scruff of your dress, practically choking you as you go teetering back into the water, “Hey, what the hell is your problem,” you seethe, as he brushes away the stray hairs that’ve escaped your very wet, _very heavy_ top bun.

His fingers brush against the back of your neck slowly, but surely. “That’s my name,” he says, and you get a shiver down your spine when you feel the soft pads of his fingertips meet your skin as if to ascertain the reality.

You jerk away, rubbing your hand against the back of your neck to feel several ridges you can’t read, but before you can say anything else, he holds up his palm—and there it is.

Your name.

You’re pretty sure it’s the hypothermia catching up with you, but as soon as you see it, your eyes roll to the back of your head, and you promptly pass out on the ground.

*

You wake up with a _shriek_.

“Oh, come now child—there’s no need to fear."

A wave of nostalgia crashes over you as you jolt up to see some old granny nursing a basin of ice water and a cold towel. She wrings it out before pressing it up against your forehead. “You have a fever,” she says, pushing you back into the padding of the sleeping mat. “There’s no need to push yourself.”

“Where am I?” You ask, quietly.

But you know this place—you know this room. These paneled walls, the pattern of the tatami mat you’re lying on, the veranda sealed shut.

Granny smiles, patting you gently on the cheek. “You’re exactly where you need to be.”

You’re too tired to understand what that means, and when you close your eyes, darkness consumes you until you’re riding off into some obscure dreamland far, far away.

*

Your eyes flutter open.

It’s dark—but from what you can tell, you’re still in the same room from earlier. You recognize the doors, the panels of the wall, and when you look over to see granny is fast asleep, snoring, you make sure to be extra careful as you crawl out from under your blankets.

You head down the halls, find the closest bathroom, and rummage through the cupboards until you find a hand-mirror.

You angle it so you can look at the back of your neck, and lo and behold—there’s one name sitting there, stamped like a scar, each character jagged and broken like it’d taken a hammer and anvil to carve it in.

 _Kita Shinsuke_.

*

You prop open the veranda, slip through the crack, and start making your way to the lake in the distance, where you see the oncoming of morning light bursting from the horizon.

But someone’s already there.

“Kita-kun,” his name escapes your lips as you come up from behind.

He looks over his shoulder, a flash of irritation forming on his face. “You should be in bed,” he states stiffly, standing up.

“I’m fine,” you tell him, though your face is covered in the grime of sweat. “My fever broke earlier in the night.”

“It’ll come back if you’re not careful,” he goes on, grabbing you by the arm. “I’ll take you back.”

“Are you my soulmate?” You ask, and he pauses, the grip on your arm loosening as he meets your gaze. “Is that what the name on the back of my neck means?”

He pauses, letting you go, “Yes.”

For a moment—a moment that might feel like a lifetime—you think. And consider it.

“I’m engaged to someone else,” you tell him, and though he betrays no disappointment on his face, you can feel some level of tension that's beginning to develop in a thick wedge between you. So you bow and whisper “I’m sorry” though you don’t know what you’re really even sorry about. _Maybe if things were different_.

“You don’t need to apologize,” he says, sighing. “Here—I’ll walk you back.”

You look out at the sunrise that’s about to bloom in the distance, “Maybe we can stay a little bit? Just for the sunrise.” And then you smile, weakly, squatting over the edge of the lake to look at the nest of frogs by the reeds. “It’s my favorite time of day.”

It surprises you more than you expect when he takes a seat next to you and says “me too.”

*

“So what’s your plan?”

“Find somewhere to stay until the next full moon,” you say, very aware of how stupid that sounds aloud, like you're some kind of werewolf. “And then…I dive into the lake and return to the world I’m from.”

Where your fiancé is waiting—with another woman. No, where your fiancé is waiting for you to return so you can remind him what a stupid, _stupid_ decision he’s making _with the other woman_.

“You can stay with us,” says Kita quietly, helping you up the pathway to his house.

You wrinkle your brows, “Are you sure?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Granny would appreciate the company.” And for whatever reason, you get another punch of nostalgia—another hit like you’ve had this exact same conversation before. “You’d have to earn your keep here, but—”

You nearly leap, wrapping your arms around his neck in a tight embrace. “Thank you, thank you, _thank you_ ,” you tell him, on the verge of actual tears. “I owe you my life—seriously. _Thank you_. I’ll remember this. _I swear I’ll pay you back_.”

And when you pull back, you see his face is completely beet red, but you tell yourself it’s because you caught him off guard--you tell yourself to think nothing of it as you make your way through the open veranda where granny is crocheting something at her perch.

*

Kita heads off to the fields after dropping you off while you return to the house to help granny make lunch.

It’s been a long time since you’ve touched a stove—learning how to cook over a hearth is a completely different experience—but you get the hang of it pretty quickly as you move along.

“You look like you know what you’re doing,” says granny, who’s taken to watching you from a distance as you set up the table. “Even after all that talk about being a city girl.”

“I used to cook with my mom a lot growing up,” you tell her, smiling. “But when I moved to Tokyo with my fiancé, I didn’t get as many chances to touch a stove,” _thanks to your fiancé, who took it upon himself to get you an in-house cook_. All your life skills turned rusty, but you were content with it because it was _convenient_. “But it feels good to cook again.”

"From the way you spoke, I would’ve assumed you were born and raised in the city.”

You pause, listening to the sizzle of the pan as you start plating the dishes. “I grew up in Yakushima, but left as soon as I got engaged. So I spent years trying to get rid of my accent,” you explain, slowly, tasting every word in your mouth that rings with a bitter tang. You don’t tell her how much you miss it, _how much you think about it at night_ before you sleep, and how much you wished you could go back, if only to see your parents.

Granny smiles, looking pleased as you start moving the main dish—a tub of oden—to the table. It’s just beginning to boil and the smell of it is enough to make your stomach grumble.

“Is Kita-san joining us?” You ask. “Should we wait?”

At the sound of his name, the door to the veranda opens—and there he is, wearing his sunhat, looking very tan, very sweaty, and very _lean_ after a hard day’s work in the field.

“Lunch is ready,” you tell him, beaming, and he walks right past you to help fix up the buttons of granny's yukata. You catch your gaze lingering on his arms, toned and muscular, before shifting it to the oden before you.

“Take better care of yourself,” he says before resuming the empty seat next to you. He smiles. “It looks good. Let’s eat.”

*

It goes just like that for the next few days.

You spend most of your time doing chores around the house—cooking and doing laundry—taking stock of the little village you live in. _And it is a village_ (yes, you checked). There’s less than 2,000 people living here and _everyone knows everyone_.

And Kita was wrong—it _does_ have a convenience store, albeit one that doesn’t carry any alcohol and closes at the hour of 3pm. It doesn’t compare to the convenience of the city, but hey, it could be worse.

At night, when the hour is latest, you go to the lake and watch the sunset with granny and Kita. Sometimes you bring cut watermelon to eat. Other times you treat yourselves to ice cream. It’s a simple life, a quiet life, and you try to tell yourself it's inconvenient, even though you find yourself liking it more than you expect.

“When I was little, I saw a girl walk on water,” says Kita, and you look out at the lake, and the moon that’s beginning to creep up in the sky—only half full. “Right there.” He points at the middle of the lake, where the moon is sitting pretty and muddled.

You cock your head to the side, “You saw Jesus?”

He frowns, glaring at you, but it’s enough to elicit a smile as you continue sucking on your popsicle.

“Deities of the earth live all around us,” says granny, watching over the two of you. “In our earth, in our plants, in our lakes—perhaps what you saw was exactly what you needed to see.”

Kita turns back to the lake, mulling.

You nod in agreement, “Well said.” And when you look back to see her smiling back, you sigh, wistfully. “I wish you were my granny.”

*

Kita, you’ve noticed, is quite popular in this village.

Every week or so, he gets a visiting woman from down the road who brings him a handmade wicker basket filled with flowers, sometimes vegetables from their farm, and a love letter that he never opens. You notice because you’re usually the one pillaging the letter from the depths of his closet after he buries it up.

Some are direct: asking for his hand in marriage. Others are saccharine and wistful, bemoaning the power of fate. Most are simple--inviting him to dinner at their house.

You know they're courting him, even as you tuck away their letters into their respective envelopes. You know they want to date him, marry him, and seal the deal forevermore. You know exactly how it feels--to put yourself out there to ask for their hand in marriage. You experienced it firsthand when you suggested it to your fiance, your fiance--

Never mind that.

“Are they suitors?” You ask him one day as you watch the sun set over the lake. “And is the basket, like, symbolic of something?”

“No,” he tells you—and that’s the end of it. He doesn’t say anymore.

But you’re so desperate to find out more you keep prodding him, “So it is a sign of affection? Are you just waiting for the right girl to—”

“—no.” He doesn’t look at you, instead, staring up at the sky where the moon is three quarter’s full. “Please stop asking me about it.”

Oh. You hug your knees to your chest, wondering what you said wrong but when he reaches out and pats your head, telling you, “don’t worry about me,” you realize it's too late--you’re already starting to worry because this is apparently a very sensitive topic he doesn’t want to get into and you _do_ , desperately so.

But you hold it back, smiling because you remember _this shouldn’t even matter_. You shouldn’t even care.

When the next full moon comes, you won’t even be here.

"You're waiting for the girl who walked on water, aren't you?"

And you would be right.

He doesn't answer, but you already know.

You lean against his shoulder, staring at the moon.

You wonder.

*

“Not everyone is born with a mark.”

Granny is crocheting a hat, and her fingers work quick—they’re spritely with experience. “Some aren’t so lucky,” she says, looking out at the endless field of grains, where the sun is just beginning to dip over the horizon. “They’re left unmarked and unwanted. So they have no choice but to but to curry favor through other means.”

Oh, you think, she’s talking about the wicker baskets and the girls with their unopened love letters.

“It’s a privilege to carry a mark,” she goes on, putting her hands over yours. Only then can you see the contrast in skin—hers, covered in old blisters and scars of a time before you. “A privilege I never knew.”

You lean against her shoulder, watching the sun set in silence together while Kita comes up the field, wiping away sweat from his forehead.

You feel a flutter in your stomach.

*

When granny is fast asleep, you crawl out of your futon and make your way down the hall, careful to avoid the creaking floorboards that you’ve memorized by heart. You move down quietly until you reach Kita’s room, where you slide it open to see—

Oh. He’s shirtless.

He doesn’t look surprised to see you, “What is it?”

You slide the door shut behind you, leaning against it as you take stock of how he looks by the candlelight.

“Full moon’s tomorrow,” you tell him, chewing on your lower lip as you watch him put on his sleeping shirt.

“I know.” He continues the trajectory of his nightly routine—grabbing his phone, checking for texts, before taking a seat on his futon. “Are you here to say goodbye? We can save that for tomorrow, y'know.”

And then.

You stride over, crawling into his lap, _straddling him_ , and it’s enough to make him fumble and drop his phone on the tatami mat with a light _thump_.

Instinctively, his hands fall to your hips, but he makes no attempt to meet your gaze, staring at your collarbone as if it’ll give him any answers you’re not offering him.

Without warning, you lean in and kiss him.

Deeply, lips parting, tongue swirling his mouth. He tastes like toothpaste and warmth, _if warmth could have a taste_ , and when you wind your fingers through his hair, he reaches behind your neck to brush your fingers against your skin— _where his mark is_. Where his name is.

It’s electric.

So much so, that when you pull back and find a string of saliva connecting your lips, you find yourself filled with a raging desire to just _take off your clothes_ and say fuck it.

But he reaches out, brushes a lock of hair behind your ear, and smiles, sadly. You look at his palm, where your name is seared, and meet his gaze with eyes filled with desire, _longing_.

Until you aren't.

Sober with clarity, you stand up.

“Good night,” you tell him, ignoring the very obvious hard-on he has in his pajama pants. “I’ll see you later.”

He doesn’t take his eyes off you as you slip out his room. Half of your heart expects him to tease you-- _you're just going to do that and leave? That's not fair_. 

And yet.

“Good night," he says, watching you slide the door shut behind you.

*

Good things end, as they do, and the only tragedy is realizing it’s good when it’s too late.

You hug granny tightly, pressing a kiss to her forehead, “I’ll be back soon,” you tell her, but it comes with a softness—no resolve at all in your tone, as she hands you the little green beanie she’d been crocheting.

“For the winters in Tokyo,” she says.

When you leave the house, it’s with a little more hesitancy that you expect, but Kita’s waiting for you by the road—not quite meeting your gaze as you come to a full halt next to him.

“Let’s go,” he says, but it’s the most defeated thing you’ve ever heard, and when you take his hand, it does nothing to lift his spirits, even as he gives your hand a squeeze in return.

*

For a while, you stare at the lake—at the reflection of the moon—and you think about what granny told you the day you arrived.

 _You’re exactly where you need to be_.

Kita, for the most part, has stuffed his hands deep into his pockets, waiting for you to take the first step into the water.

“Don’t forget to handwash that,” he says, eyes pointed to the beanie in your hands. “Granny says it’ll shrink in the dryer.”

“I will.”

“And wash your hair when you get home.”

“I will.”

“And don’t forget to see a doctor. The bacteria and parasites here may be foreign to your immune system, which probably explains why you got a fever the day you arrived.”

You smile a little, clutching the beanie to your chest as you look up at the moon again. It’s strange how something as mundane as a daily routine— _watching the sun set together_ —has turned into something so immensely painful, you could practically keel over and cry.

“That girl who walked on water,” you say, suddenly, meeting his gaze.

He looks at you with eyes half-lidded.

“That was me."

He smiles, weakly, “I know.”

Your eyes go hot with tears, but for some reason, you’re not surprised by the revelation either. _The revelation that he already knows_.

When you walk across the surface of the lake, under the thick of moonlight, and take one last look at him to see him waving back at you—you reach behind your neck, touching the mark where his name is, and hold your breath as the water collapses, sending you into a void of darkness below.

*

Two months later, Kita finds himself staring at the endless horizon, watching the fireflies unroot themselves from their burrows to light up the sky.

Granny smiles, “It’s nice and cool tonight.”

“It is,” he agrees.

“Did you make a wish?”

“No.”

Granny smiles, “I see you sneaking out every night—there’s no use in trying to fool me."

Kita smiles.

There’s a shriek—and a body comes barreling through the sky, hitting the surface of the water with a devastatingly loud _splash_ that echoes through the whole farm.

Grandma smiles, “Go ahead then.”

*

You surface from the water, swimming to the edge with a smile on your face as Kita starts wading in. But before he can help you up, you tackle him with a hug that has him falling back into the water with a soft _grunt_.

“I’ve missed you,” you tell him, squeezing him as tightly as you can.

He cranes his neck, trying not to physically drown as you crush him with your weight, though there’s a small smile withered away on his face too. “You came back,” he says, and when you pull away, you see there are tears glistening in his eyes.

“I did.” You roll off him, offering him a hand, which he gladly takes as you pull him back to his feet. “I had a few things to take care of at home, but I’m—”

Suddenly, two boxes come hurtling in from the air, crashing into the water one right after the other. “That’s my luggage,” you say, somewhat sheepishly as your cheeks tinge pink. “I was hoping I could stay a while—if that’s OK with you.”

“You can stay forever,” he blurts out.

You blink, looking at him over your shoulder to see he’s completely flustered. _Fists clenched, blushing_. And when you realize he’s waiting for an answer, you look back at the moon and say with the softest breath you can manage, _“OK.”_

Warm arms wrap around you from behind and you sigh contentedly, staring up at the sky. “Granny was right,” you say, but it carries no resolve as you melt into the comfort of his hold.

 _This is exactly where I need to be_.

He smiles, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck where his name is.

**Author's Note:**

> KITA, MAN....
> 
> prob gonna keep this to 3 chapters until inspiration strikes :)
> 
> I’m on [twitter](https://twitter.com/wanderlu5tt)


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